


Claustrophobia

by Schgain



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Magnus is shaped like a friend, Panic Attacks, Post-The Eleventh Hour, Spoilers for The Eleventh Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/pseuds/Schgain
Summary: Roswell copes. Magnus helps.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If no one else will write Roswell content, then I MUST.
> 
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated!

Claustrophobia

 

Magnus cups Roswell in his hands. They are large and calloused where they aren't scarred, and there is raw strength in every movement he makes. But when he is with Roswell he is gentle, so gentle, and for a moment they can pretend that the hands holding them are their own, made of clay and tarnished gauntlets. 

It had happened like this: Roswell was- is- going stir-crazy, no matter how they try to enjoy themself in the Lunar Base.  
Roswell's been in a damn bubble as long as they can remember, and coming out of that was something new and wonderful. The ability to stretch their wings, truly, to ride canyon thermals up up up until their wings brushed the pearly white surface of the moon... There is no greater freedom than open air. They're fidgety and snappish and they've already pecked Taako once. There's nothing for them to do, no rounds to make, no tasks for them to aid in. In this small body it's hard to turn the pages of books, harder to feel strong and substantial, and downright impossible to open doors. 

What this is, apparently, is something the Heroes of Refuge aptly diagnose as panic attacks. 

Roswell's scared of two things on this earth, and neither can hurt them anymore. But every so often their anxiety boils over into true split-decision fear of fight or flight, and no matter the golden magic within them, Roswell can only seem to 'flight' at times like these. 

They had panicked. They'd taken to the stagnant air of an indoor room, screaming, flying in circles with no regard to what they're bumping into. Roswell hit the window to the outside twice before Magnus manages to scoop them up, and he plops down on his bedside cupping the little vermillion flycatcher. 

Roswell has never been a touchy-feely person (or rather, they've never been a person at all, and they can't remember anything about who they were when they were only a Vermillion Flycatcher in the gulch), but Magnus can scratch the itch that they can never reach, and Magnus is as dependable a perch one can be without being one's second body, and Magnus can do something that Roswell hasn't heard from a human in a long time:

He can sing. 

"Rosie?" he murmurs, but all Roswell can do is tremble in his fingers. There's not enough sky here, not enough space, the moon is always cold and the only greenery is a well kept lawn. It's all so artificial and _controlled_ , there's no element of home to the Bureau. "Roz, is there something I can do to make you feel safe?" 

They can't speak-- the words get caught in their throat, can't even manifest as birdsong. Magnus seems to understand. He's good like that. 

"When I get all fuzzed in the head, music always helps me. I'm no Johan, but I can play you a song, if you'd like?" 

Roswell nods their head, and Magnus rubs his thumb over their feathers. They hate feeling small. They miss their halberd, they miss their armor and their sheriff badge and their cowboy boots with the pretty spurs. They miss Refuge and the open air too, where they can keep things safe always. 

Magnus shifts Roswell to one hand, where they perch on his finger as he reaches for something under the bed- a beat up old lute with a strange shape to it. 

"I need both hands, so why don't you sit on my shoulder. You ever hear of Fantasy Dave Matthews Band?" he smiles a friendly, loving Bunsides-trademark smile as Roswell flutters to his shoulder and grips his suspender strap. 

Magnus is out of practice and out of tune. But to Roswell, his voice is no greater comcort, and they think they would have been spoiled if it were any other way.

"Little red bird under a chair  
Waiting for the crumbs to fall  
Daddy said Get a job  
Well don't you see, Daddy, how good I am at catching crumbs?

Guns and gods and little red birds  
Guns and gods and little red birds..."


End file.
